


You are the Knife I Turn Inside Myself

by SambliongPalpatine



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Spoilers(?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SambliongPalpatine/pseuds/SambliongPalpatine
Summary: So, I recently finished reading-rather listen- to the audiobook of CoG and oh did it break my heart. The lady read it so beautifuly...I love Anna, Cordelia, Lucie, Jessie and Thomas. Matthew is just a cinamon roll that I want to wrap in a blanket and give him love.And then Thomas and Alastair... this fic wouldn’t leave me alone, it had to be written. Therefore I hope you enjoy it.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	You are the Knife I Turn Inside Myself

**Author's Note:**

> So, I recently finished reading-rather listen- to the audiobook of CoG and oh did it break my heart. The lady read it so beautifuly...
> 
> I love Anna, Cordelia, Lucie, Jessie and Thomas. Matthew is just a cinamon roll that I want to wrap in a blanket and give him love. 
> 
> And then Thomas and Alastair... this fic wouldn’t leave me alone, it had to be written. Therefore I hope you enjoy it.

You are Like the Knife I twist Inside Myself

Thomas isn’t sure how long he’s been laying on the floor of this room. His sister is dead, what does the rest matter? Besides, the floor is not at all uncomfortable. Besides, he is sure he lacks the strength to pick himself up. 

He tries to make himself smaller, pulling his knees even tighter against his body in a fetal position. His sister is dead, what does the rest matter? What does his shaking mattter? Or the hardness of the floor or his still tingling skin from where Alastair had touched him when he drew the iratze. It doesn’t matter. 

His sister is dead. 

Alastair is in London now. 

His sister is dead. 

Alastair drew an iratze on him. 

His sister is dead. 

His eyes sting with how many tears he has already shed. His voice is hoars and his throat is sore and his head is pounding. And still he lays on the floor and still he cries. 

His parents are to be portaling to Idris where his sister Eugenia has been staying but he will remain here. He can’t leave, he has to stay and do something. 

Something to alíviate the guilt he feels. His sister is dead and there is nothing he could have done to stop it. 

Thomas holds himself closer, trying to keep the chiasm from growing. The pain is too big and he is not enough to hold it back. He knows, technically, that he should be with his family for this reason but he doesn’t want to burden his parents with his grief. 

So alone he is. 

"Thomas," someone whispers, as gentle but firm hands grab him by the shoulders. "Thomas," they repeat. 

He whines, admittedly pitiful, and shuts his eyes hard, his arms and chest hurting with the effort of holding himself. 

"Thomas," a warm hand pushes the hair plastered to his forehead back. "You better stand up before you catch something," that familiar voice goes on. 

Thomas’ eyes fly open and he shoots up so quickly that he probably strained something but that voice- 

Alastair. 

The other man knelt in front of him; blond hair all over the place, clothesaskew and worry all over his face and looking as beautiful as ever. His warm delicate hands still on him. 

"What are you doing here?" he croaks out painfully. 

Alastair rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything snarky, he stands up and silently offers him a hand. "Come on," he mutters, wiggling the fingers of his stretched hand. 

Thomas stares between Alastair’s face and hand for a couple seconds before finally accepting the help. The shorter man lifting him easily before tugging him towards the bed and Thomas is too tired, too bone-weary, to complain. 

Alastair drops into the mattress without letting go of Thomas’ hand so he could pull the taller man down with him. Thomas is surprised by the display, in a good and bad way. Of all the people that could have come looking for him Alastair Carstairs is the last person he expected. 

And yet here the man is; motioning for him to lay next to him. Thomas, to his own amazement, does just that. He just- lays sideways and places his head on the other’s chest. It’s awkward-what with their difference in height- Thomas has to arrange his limbs so he could make himselt fit better against Alastair. Long, musician’s fingers start carding through his hair so very gently, helping Thomas relax. 

After a minute that feels like a silent eternity, Thomas repeats his earlier question. "What are you- why did you come?" he whispers, somewhat apprehensive. 

Alastair remains silent for so long that it startles Thomas when he finally speaks. "You needed me,” he says simply, as if it were an unequivocal fact. 

Thomas’ heart melts, it’s always heart-warming when someone he didn’t expect it from show they care. Tentatively, as if afraid this might be a dream, he wraps his left arm around Alastair’s torso and surrenders to the comforting warmth irradiating from the other man. “Thank you," he whispers, his voice still hoarse. 

Alastair doesn’t answer, he simply continues on with carding fingers through his hair which ends up lulling him to sleep. 

-

The persistent caress of the sun on his face is what wakes Thomas up. There is a feathery touch on his arm and an up-down motion under his head and a warm spot on his back. Odd. 

Thomas opens his eyes carefully, peering through his lashes to see what he could be laying on. 

Or rather, on who. 

Alastair Carstairs, illuminated by the morning sunshine, a light sort of halo shining on his hair, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. Thomas has always thought that beauty is composed of dark hair and dark eyes. Alastair is still beautiful nonetheless. He is always beautiful to him. 

Thomas swallows, he almost had expected it all to be a dream because well, why would Alastair Carstairs come here? To, of all things, comfort him. 

"Ah, morning," he says, making the word an awkward melange of statement and question. 

The other man’s mouth quirks up slightly. "Yes, morning Lightwood," he answers with laughter in his voice. "You sleep alright?"

"Yes, considering I wasn’t expecting to sleep much," he confesses a little choked. 

Silence settles over them; in times of grief words aren’t necessary. Instead Alastair resumes petting Thomas’ hair with his long fingers. 

"Why aren’t you with your family?" he asks quietly. 

"I- ah," Thomas closes his eyes and swallows thickly. "I didn’t want to impose on their grief," he admits. 

"Thomas," the other says seriously. "She was your sister. You lost her too, you wouldn’t be imposing when you are grieving as well."

Thomas’ heart constricts painfully. He knows, intellectually, that Alastair is right. And yet. Yet he feels like he is imposing. "Thank you,” he says for lack of something better. 

Alastair says nothing, he pulls Thomas a little closer to himself. 

Thomas moves his head back so he can be able to look up at the other’s face; there is a lock of hair innocently laying on his forehead, the tips tangled with his lashes. Very slowly, as not to scare the other man, he lifts a hand to gently grab it and twirl it between his fingers. It is so silky soft that he wishes he could thread all his fingers through the whole of his hair. 

Alastair’s breath hitches and given the position of his head, Thomas catches the skip of the man’s heart. Thomas smiles to himself in satisfaction with the knowledge that he has this kind of effect on the usually closed-off Alastair Carstairs. "Will you ever let it go to black again?" he asks curiously, secretly hoping the answer is yes. 

Alastair gives a shrug. "Maybe," he mumbles, the hand not on his hair is running feathery-like up and down his forearm. "With the right incentive," he smirks. 

"It’s for you," he confesses in a whisper when he notices that the other is particularly tracing the petals on his tattoo. 

He hears, more than sees, the other swallow. "I- I don’t think I deserve it," he says shakily. 

He is probably right, the Angel knows. But love is not something you give because it is deserved. Therefore the gestures you do in its name are freely given. But Thomas won’t say any of this to the man. Not now. 

Not ever. 

/

The rain has been heavily falling against the Institute for the past... well, forever. It’s London. Today, however, it’s different. 

Alastair is perched on the windowsill, entranced with the raindrops cascading down the crystals. 

It’s been a few weeks since it all went down and yet it still hurts the same as the first day. He probably will always have Thomas’ expression engraved in his mind and his words branded in his heart. At least he has some untainted memories, like Paris, to get by. 

It feels like only yesterday when he was telling Cordelia that the truth always comes out without remembering the one truth he wished to keep hidden. 

Alastair sighs, closing his eyes. Ever since his sister got married he prefers to spend his time here rather than at home. 

Which is contraproductive, considering Thomas said he didn’t wish to either see nor speak to him and that he would toss him into the Tames if he tried. 

Being here is risky. Help with the pain in his heart it does not. Alas, don’t they say love hurts? 

Alastair leans his forehead against the cool window, hoping the sensation helps his mind to quiet so he can go to sleep. As he listens to the rain he remembers a conversation he had with Cordelia long ago, after the year in the Academy, he thinks he finally sees it now. The hurt he wanted to cause in order to relieve his own hadn’t been worth it. If only he had seen it that way... it doesn’t matter now. 

He’s lost something he didn’t even know he had. And oh but how it hurts. 

The door opening has him nearly falling from his seat. It’s past midnight, the other inhabitants are long since asleep plus they all knew he was staying in this room so who- 

"Did you get lost ?" he asks, without   
turning to see who it is. 

"No." Thomas Lightwood says. "I knew where I was going."

Alastair’s jaw drops. "Thomas," he breathes out dumbfounded. 

The other man comes to stand next to him, deliberately not looking at him. "I couldn’t sleep," he speaks to the window. 

He is in shirtsleeves, hair disheveled and barefoot- simply the most beautiful man Alastair has ever seen. 

"I couldn’t either," he replies hoarsely. "Did you know?"

Thomas shakes his head. "I hoped," he says. 

Alastair stares at him in silence for a moment. What else is there to say? He’s already apologized more than once, he doesn’t think that doing it again would make any difference but he has to say something before Thomas realizes where he is and leaves. "I’m in love with you."

It is as if suddenly all air has left the room, ph- Alastair’s eyes widen. Did he really just-no. He surely spoke in persian, right? 

Right?

Thomas is standing there, flabbergasted. His eyes were fasten unblinkingly at him with his mouth in a frozen ‘oh’. 

No such luck, it seems. 

Time to track the hell back right this instant. 

"Ah- I don’t-" he starts. 

But the other man recuperates quickly. "No, wait," he hurries to interrupt before anything else could tumble out of his mouth. "Don’t take it back. I-," he pauses to swallow. "I haven’t forgiven you, it would probably still be some time before I do. But I can move past it and get to know you again," he says earnestly. 

Alastair’s breath hitches at that. It wasn’t the confession he expected but it’s something, it’s enough to make a spark of hope ignite. "That- that sounds good," he says embarrassingly breathy. "I can work with that."

Thomas smiles a little, walking closer to Alastair to place a hand on his cheek. 

"I’m glad," he whispers. 

And kisses him. 

It is everything both have ever wanted; something that feels so right, unlike anything else for either of them. It is- love. 

Simple and extremely complicated. 

Alastair wraps his arms around Thomas’ neck as he pulls away to rest their foreheads together. "Now Lightwood, I like your way of getting to know me," he chuckles breathlessly. 

"Good." Thomas is panting and flushed and real and beautiful and   
Alastair wants him. 

The taller man wraps his arms around the shorter man’s waist so he can carry him to the bed. Surprisingly he joins him under the covers. 

Alastair feels himself pleasantly warm inside, allowing himself to cuddle against the taller man. Thomas has an arm around him, the left one lays over his chest, displaying his tattoo. Alastair’s heart backflips at the sight. He surrenders to the compulsion to trace it, he feels the shiver run down the other man at the contact. 

"It’s still for you," comes the whispered admission. 

Alastair swallows thickly. "Does that mean I won’t be chucked into the Tames," he tries to joke but it sounds too shaky to be anything but a nervous ramble. 

Thomas turns his head so he can look at Alastair. "We’ll see about that," he says with a cheeky grin. He raises his hand to finger at one lock of black hair that’s fallen over the other’s face. "I like it like this," he says softly, twisting the lock between his fingers. 

"It’s for you," the shorter boy confesses, lowering his gaze, mortified. 

A big, warm hand in his cheek makes him lift his head again. There is a flush in Thomas’ cheeks as well but his eyes are steady on him. "You know something," he says not looking away. Alastair’s heart starts climbing into his throat with anticipation. "I’m in love with you, too."

Despite being laying down, it is as if the world has been pulled from underneath him. Those words. 

He’s wanted to hear those words for far too long and now that they’ve been said- his heart is imploding. 

Alastair stares at Thomas, the thought of how beautiful he is hitting him again. His, however, isn’t obvious like Matthew’s or James’. No, Thomas’ beauty is hidden in his shyness, in the delicate way he handled people and objects as if afraid he might break them, in his kindness and caring nature, in how clumsy he gets when flustered. He is so beautiful it hurts. But there are hurts that are harmless, maybe even worth it. 

"Well then," he whispers, closing the gap between them. "We can make it work." 

Thomas grins a little, moving to place a kiss on his forehead. "Yes," he breathes. "We can."

And they will.


End file.
